"What!" The Chevalier set down his glass. His companions did likewise. "You are jesting, Jehan."
"No, Monsieur. This moment he commanded me to approach you."
"The marquis wishes to speak to me, you say?" The Chevalier looked about him to see how this news affected his friends. They were exchanging blank inquiries. "Tell Monsieur le Marquis that I will be with him presently."
"Now, Monsieur; pardon me, but he wishes to see you now."
"The devil! Messieurs, accept my excuses. My father is old and is doubtless attacked by a sudden chill. I will return immediately."
At the Chevalier's entrance the marquis did not rise; he merely turned his head. The Chevalier approached his chair, frowning.
"Monsieur," said the son, "Jehan has interrupted me to say that you desired to speak to me. Are you ill?"
"Not more than usual," answered the marquis dryly, catching the sarcasm underlying the Chevalier's solicitude. "It is regarding a matter far more serious and important than the state of my health. I am weary, Monsieur le Comte; weary of your dissipations, your carousals, your companions; I am weary of your continued disrespect."
"Monsieur, you never taught me to respect you," quietly, the flush gone from his cheeks.
The marquis nodded toward his wife's portrait, as if to say: "You see, Madame?" To his son he said: "If you can not respect me as your father, at least you might respect my age."